The Cowboy's Big Family Tree

She pulled up to the sprawling white farmhouse, the front porch festooned with white lights, a three-foot tall painted wood nutcracker soldier standing aside the door next to two sorry-looking carved jack-o’-lanterns that Logan probably couldn’t bear to get rid of. Clementine loved how he tried so hard to make a sweet life for his nephews. Decorating for the holidays and carving pumpkins hadn’t been part of his world before he’d taken them in. Last summer, he’d told her stories about his life on the rodeo circuit, and though it sounded lonely to Clementine, he’d said he loved it. He’d muttered under his breath about something, a bad incident, but he wouldn’t talk about it. Then, Clementine had just been starting to understand Logan Grainger somewhat—he didn’t like to talk about what upset him, same as her, same as probably lots of people, except her two sisters. Now she wished he was more like Annabel and Georgia and said outright what was digging at him.

Clementine turned around and glanced at the twins in the back in their car seats. Both of them were fast asleep, Henry’s head hanging down, Harry’s to the side, his little pink mouth open. Both clutched the little stuffed reindeers she’d bought for them from a sidewalk fund raiser in town. She couldn’t bear to wake them.

Clementine walked up the three steps to the porch and smiled at the jack-o’-lantern, took a deep breath and knocked. Logan opened the door, eyebrow raised since his nephews weren’t at her side. “The boys fell asleep in their car seats. I think the rehearsal tuckered them out. My gram brought turkey po’boys and a few side dishes as a surprise for everyone for the first rehearsal, so they did eat.”

He looked past her at the car. “That was nice of her. Tell her thank you from me. I’ll carry them up to bed.”

She stood on the porch while he carried in Harry. When he went back out for Henry, she headed into the kitchen. She didn’t work for Logan anymore and had no business going into his kitchen and making a pot of coffee the way she used to, but too bad. The man needed coffee and so did she. And she wasn’t leaving without knowing what had him so tied up in knots.

He hadn’t opened up to her in three months. Why would he now?

She heard him walking upstairs, then a door being slowly closed. Then his footsteps on the stairs again.

He came into the kitchen, glancing briefly at her. “Is that coffee I smell?”

“I took the liberty. You looked like you could use some.” She bit her lip. Well, go ahead, Clem. He’s not going to bring it up. “Logan, I—I know you’ve made it crystal clear that you don’t want anything to do with me. I don’t know what happened back in August. You kissed me, and I thought something was happening between us. Then a minute later, you read a letter and that was it. All of a sudden, the next day you fired me and wouldn’t talk to me.”

He turned away for a moment, then leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry, Clementine. I was a real jerk to you.”

But why? she wanted to scream. Why, why, why?

She waited for him to elaborate. Maybe if she stopped trying to fill the silence, he’d go on.

She could hear the coffee dripping into the pot. The second hand on the big analog clock on the wall ticking away. Her own beating heart.

He looked at her for a long few seconds, then said, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

Please do, she thought.

“Sure,” she said, practically holding her breath.

He looked at her, his blue eyes intense, then he glanced away. “Did you feel, deep down, that the Hurleys were your parents, that you were their child? Or did you feel...adopted?”

What the heck? Where was this coming from? Was he worried about how the twins would feel being raised by their uncle?

She stared at him, having no idea where he was going with this or what this had to do with her question. But clearly, it did. “To be honest, both,” she said. “But the Hurleys took me in when I was eight. From that point on, I did feel they were my parents and I loved them and I believed they loved me. Annabel and Georgia felt like my sisters from the start because they were so loving to me. They made me feel like I was one of them. But maybe because I was eight when they adopted me, I was very aware that for the years prior, I was in limbo. Foster care. I had a birth mother, but she couldn’t take care of me.”

He nodded. “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

Again, what the hell? Hadn’t she and Logan talked about this a bit when he’d first hired her as the boys’ after-school sitter? He knew Clementine’s story. It had come up because when she’d first starting babysitting for him last spring, not long after he’d come home to raise the boys, he once asked aloud if the twins would accept Logan as a father figure. She’d talked a lot about love and commitment and being there as what mattered.

“My mother was a drug addict,” she said. “She had me at eighteen and managed to be clean during her pregnancy for my sake. That tells me a lot about her. She tried hard. But she couldn’t stay clean and she was in and out of rehab for years. So I say couldn’t.”

“Well, sometimes it’s about wouldn’t.”

She walked over to him and put her hand on his arm. He stiffened. “Logan, what is this about?”

He reached over to the counter to a few manila envelopes with a letter lying on top. He handed her the letter, which was from a Clyde T. Parsons in Tuckerville. “Read it,” he said.

She gasped at the first sentence. Then about three more times. Oh, Logan, she thought. What a thing to find out at age twenty-eight—and when everyone involved was gone.

“This is about wouldn’t,” he said. He opened a cabinet and pulled out two mugs, then filled them with coffee and got out the cream and sugar.

She put the letter down on the counter and reached for her mug. “Not necessarily.”

“Not necessarily?” he repeated, frowning. “He walked out on a pregnant woman. Walked out on his responsibilities to her and to me. Then he needs to die in peace so he flings a grenade at me as a parting gift? Wouldn’t, Clementine.”

Her heart constricted. This was complicated and messy and was tearing him apart, rightfully so.

She wrapped her hands around the steaming mug. “I’m just saying that there’s a fine line between can’t and won’t. Sometimes people can’t step up. They don’t have it in them.”

“Bull. I stepped up. My brother and his wife died leaving two little boys confused about why their parents weren’t here anymore.”

“You had it in you, Logan. You’re strong. You care. Some people just can’t handle things. So they walk away.”

He shook his head. “You mean they won’t, so they walk away. Anyone can step up.”

Clementine felt lead weights on her shoulders. “I don’t know.” She really didn’t. Her birth mother hadn’t been able to, even thought she’d claimed quite a few times over the years that she wanted to. Sometimes, to keep your heart intact, you had to believe what you needed to believe. Clementine needed to believe in couldn’t, not wouldn’t.

Logan’s jaw was set hard. “So you condone what Parsons did.”

“No. Of course not. I’m just saying he very likely didn’t have it in him to do anything else.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He turned away and took a long drink of his coffee.

She hadn’t meant to shut him down. Maybe she was supposed to listen more, talk less?

If she didn’t believe in her heart that her birth mother was a couldn’t and not a wouldn’t, Clementine was sure her heart would break in a thousand pieces. Sometimes, when she thought about Lacey Woolen, it was the only thing that kept Clementine okay.

“I can only talk about my particular situation and how I feel about it,” she said. “I completely understand how you feel, Logan. The parting gift, the walking away, the grenade, I get it. God, what a bombshell.”

“Why didn’t my parents tell me?” he asked quietly. “How could they let me live a lie?”

“Probably because deep down and no matter what, you were Haywood Grainger’s son, and that was no lie. It was their truth, Logan.”

“But not the truth,” he said, shaking his head again.

She wanted to go over and wrap her arms around him, but she didn’t dare. “It’s complicated.”

He took another sip of his coffee. “Let’s change the subject. How’d the boys do tonight?”

She smiled. “Great. They now can sing the first line of ‘Jingle Bells’ without a hitch. And that’s only after one night of rehearsal.”

“Isn’t the first line just ‘Jingle Bells’ twice?”

She laughed. “Yes. But they’re only three years old.”

“They’ve missed you. I’m glad they can spend time with you.”

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “At least I know now why you fired me, why you pushed me away. You were all torn up.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry, Clementine. You deserved better than that.”

So come over here. Kiss me again. Take me in your arms. Let me in now that I know. Maybe I can help.

He did none of the above. “I don’t know who the hell I am,” he added grimly. Am I even Harry’s and Henry’s uncle if I’m not a Grainger?” He shook his head. “That’s dumb. Even if I’m just half, I’m still their uncle.”

She put down her mug. “You are, no matter what.”

“I hate this,” he said. “I hate it all.”

She bit her lip and let out a breath. “Have you verified that this Clyde T. Parsons is telling the truth? Have you seen the photographs he mentions in the letter?”

He explained about the call this afternoon, about the picture of Clyde Parsons being a dead ringer for him. He picked up one of the manila envelopes, reached in and pulled out a photograph of a man without looking at it, then handed it to her.

She took the photograph and stared at it. Oh wow. Clyde Parsons looked very much like Logan Grainger. They had the same features—except Clyde’s eyes were hazel—the same hair, and there was something so similar in their expressions.

Her heart went out to Logan. How hard this must be. So much to take in, so many questions, no answers.

“Maybe Parsons has family,” she said softly.

He shot a glance at her. “His family has nothing to do with me.”

She wasn’t so sure she agreed, but now wasn’t the time to talk about that anyway. “I just mean that maybe you can find out who Clyde Parsons was, what he was like. You could do some poking around about him.”

“Don’t I know everything by his actions? He walked out on his pregnant girlfriend. He let another man take responsibility.” He set his mug down hard in the sink. “You know what? I’m done talking about this. Done thinking about it. Haywood Grainger was my father—he raised me. That’s all I need to know.”

Except the whole thing was tearing Logan apart. So it wasn’t all he needed to know. It was what he wanted to know, but for closure, for peace, he’d have to do more than ignore the truth.

Clementine glanced at her watch. “Oh no, I’m late. My shift starts at six and you know how crazy busy Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen gets on a Friday night. “By the way, my sister Annabel told me that tomorrow’s special is Gram’s famed macaroni and cheese. Maybe you can bring the boys in for lunch. Oh and practice ‘Jingle Bells’ over breakfast.”

He nodded. “Will do. And maybe we will come in for lunch tomorrow. I’d like to thank your grandmother for the po’boys. The twins love Hurley’s po’boys.”

And hadn’t had them for the three months he’d been avoiding her, hung in the air between them.

“Logan, if you need to talk about this, you can call me or come see me anytime. You know that, right?”

“I’m done talking about it,” he said, his blue eyes stony. “But...thanks,” he added, his expression softening just a little.

She headed toward the door, wishing she could stay, wishing she could rush over to him and hug him tight. It took everything in her to walk to the door and leave him alone with his thoughts.

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